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When it comes to movies, he likes the classics. Films of the silent era did not contain the nonsense of today's flashy dramas and sappy romantic comedies. There was an elegance and a finesse lost to the art of filmmaking now that the silver screen cared only for golden dollars.

He turned his head when couple on the screen locked lips in a romantic kiss. Even the best of films had this one flaw. They always had to return to some feeble relationship. Not even horror films could entirely turn away from some couple holding hands and kissing as the horrible beast descended from above. He let his gaze wander to the impressive arsenal on his wall.

His collection was the work of years of gathering. He had pieces from every major era of history and every part of the globe. Blades ranging from slender and graceful pieces formed by fairys to the blunt stone slab of a rock giant with a ruby the size of a hen's egg set in the hilt. Shields of every color and texture served him for wallpaper. Guns had their own display case, each resting on a bed of crushed blue velvet and fully loaded. Dirt was an enemy to be slayed upon appearance. There was not one piece in his collection that bore signs of neglect once he got his hands on it.

His pieces were not only beautiful, they were functional. Even the seemingly fragile ones had seen good use.

The bell was a subtle sound, but one he could respond to when waking from the deepest sleep. The voice of his superior always grated on his nerves. She always sounded like a spokeswoman for bubble gum as she trilled the name of his current target. The company called them priority clients, a cutesy name for an ugly reality.

The street was nearly deserted when he emerged. A new moon, the perfect setting for dark deeds. All but two of the streetlamps were dead. The city did not bother throwing money at repairs in this section of slums. He could hear other shadowed figures scuffling out of his way as he sought the comforting shadows of the nearest alley. One had tried to sell him a watch of mysterious origin once. He was not subtle with the knife. He did not care if his neighbors were decent sorts or utter villains. In his opinion, a perfect world would involve a plague to wipe them all out.

The familiar sounds of city life were muted and distant the farther he moved into the maze of back alleys. He could navigate the narrow passages blind. He had once, on one of the three occasions he had actually feared for his life.

His target was supposed to be seven blocks down, a local at one of the piss-poor taverns on the east side. The man stank of cheap beer and too many nights sleeping near the town dump. He was singing some snatch of song he must have heard over the bar's loudspeaker, though when he didn't know the words he would fall to humming the melody.

The assassin's lip curled in disgust. He had been called upon to kill the kin of foreign kings. Surely his superiors were playing their idea of a joke. His supervisor had insisted this man was important, a drug lord or something. He never paid much attention once the details of his target were fixed in his mind.

Though he had to admit there was one advantage to stalking a man trying to talk up a fire plug. The crook did not have the presence of mind to beg for his life. Nyk hated the pleaders more than the macho ones who thought they could take him. When a target fell to his knees and begged it was hard to remember that he must make the death look natural. It was hard not to play out the scene in every way the horror movies got it wrong. The monster wins and the gushing couple is left as so many jigsaw pieces that the king's men have no hope of ever putting together again.

The man's head hits the curb with a satisfying crunch. He does not even have time to suffer. In a few hours he will be found and the drink will get the blame.

The assassin returned to his modest lair, the blade he'd been unable to use hanging from his belt. The piece was one of his favorites, a slender dagger with chips of amethyst shaped into the likeness of an upheld palm. Though there was not a speck of blood on his person, he laid the blade beneath a work light. The thumbing of a button set the stereo to play the thrumming notes of Symphony No. 9 as he began to clean the spotless blade with the greatest of care.

----------------------------------------------Credits:Story by PureflowerOverlay by User not found: anastasiaProfile by ShantalOwner: Shantal